


belladonna

by am_fae



Category: Potop | The Deluge (1974), Potop | The Deluge - Henryk Sienkiewicz, Trylogia | The Trilogy - Henryk Sienkiewicz
Genre: (idk how to tag this?), (kind of), ....really dysfunctional i'm sorry, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Dysfunctional Relationships, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kmicic speaks an improbable # of languages, M/M, Self-Hatred, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 09:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13901511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_fae/pseuds/am_fae
Summary: Bogusław shoots Kmicic in the face and escapes. They both end up with Wołodyjowski's confederates anyway. (AU where Kmicic doesn't go to Częstochowa, and is not absolved.)





	belladonna

**Author's Note:**

> *Blank Space playing in the distance*
> 
> (Obligatory disclaimer that I know very little about historical Bogusław Radziwiłł & his characterization here is based purely off Sienkiewicz's character in Potop! Also, I'm sorry.)

“As you have so succinctly put it, you’re going to hell anyway,” he suggests. Kmicic’s hands are in his hair; he is shaking his head, looks, as per usual, desperate and distressed. Bogusław twists the knife, casually, _en citant_ : “‘Twice over: once as an oathbreaker, and once as a Catholic.’”

Kmicic cries out. “Oh God –”

He conceals his enjoyment. There is no torment Bogusław can inflict on Kmicic worse than that Kmicic inflicts on himself.

“If you want to fuck, let’s fuck,” Bogusław drawls, cold as ice. “And if you don’t then go your way. But do not bore me.”

Kmicic’s blue eyes, when they meet his, are anguished.

“I want you,” he says raggedly, and oh, Bogusław wants him.

“More than your Aleksandra?” Bogusław teases, a quirk to the corner of his painted mouth. “More than” – and this last one’s more a guess than anything – “Pan Wołodyjowski?”

“No,” Kmicic says boldly. His eyes are bright; he is nervous but trying not to show it. “But you’ll do in the meantime.”

Bogusław snakes an arm around his waist, hooking his hands into the sash of Kmicic’s kontusz. “You really know how to flatter a boy, Pan Cavalier.”

Kmicic parts his lips to reply and Bogusław kisses him. Hard.

A startled, almost pained cry, and Kmicic kisses in response. And after that, there is no turning back.

 

His bed is big enough to easily fit three people. Kmicic, lanky and muscled, near six inches shorter than already-tall Bogusław in heeled French boots, drowns in the feather mattress, the gold-embroidered covers. Bogusław supposes that he isn’t used to it, better accustomed to hard soldier’s cots or the straw pallets of country houses; this, he imagines, is responsible for his tossing and turning before he falls asleep nights. Or rather, _after_ he falls asleep; Kmicic slumps back exhausted into the pillows and tends to be asleep instantly, leaving Bogusław to pour himself a glass of cognac or brandy, stretch out, and self-congratulatorily admire his latest conquest.

 

(It’s occurred to him before that Kmicic may be doing this _because_ he doesn’t like it, or, similarly, because the shame and disgust of liking it cause him pain.

Neither of these options gives Bogusław the slightest touch of concern.)

 

“Well, how many languages _do_ you speak then?”

Kmicic is startled into laughter. A bright thing and joyous, if a bit too unskilled for Bogusław’s taste: it’s a pity the boy is too caught up in thoughts of supposed treason to realize his own value.

“German, Polish of course, Lithuanian, Latin, Swedish, a little Latvian,” Kmicic says cheerfully, “…can hold a decent conversation in Ruthenian as well.”

“ _Ma foi, c’est beaucoup._ ” He switches back to German. “Such talent, and wasted on the parlance of peasants.” Smiling, he touches Kmicic’s shoulder. “What’s the use if you can’t speak French?”

“What use would I have _for_ it?”

“It would please me,” Bogusław murmurs.

 

The narrow blade of the Italian-made dagger glitters as he turns it in his hand. Kmicic, ridged scar on his cheek already from the path of Bogusław’s bullet, begins to sit up in bed, stomach muscles rippling, until Bogusław gestures ‘stop’.

“What are you doing,” Kmicic says, breathless and boneless from fear or desire, and Bogusław smiles, sharp and unmerciful. He sits on the edge of the bed and leans over.

“Amusing myself, Pan Cavalier,” he says lightly, and points with the blade, just piercing the skin. “You can pretend I’m Michał Wołodyjowski, and I can pretend you’re a pretty girl.”

Kmicic inhales. Bogusław doesn’t wait for his consent.

 

Blood seeps from shallow cuts: nicks in Kmicic’s chest, needle-thin slices on his thighs. Bogusław runs his hands liberally up the smooth skin to Kmicic’s hips, smearing his palms with red.

Kmicic breathes raggedly; he’s pale. Astutely, Bogusław assesses him – Kmicic’s eyes follow his hands as he lifts a finger to his lips, tasting copper: the sick fascination with which Kmicic stares at his mouth thrills him – he thinks perhaps he could take a little more.

“Be so kind, Pan Cavalier,” he says, and after wiping his hands and Kmicic’s cuts with a damp, cold cloth, delicately traces the scar on Kmicic’s cheek. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“Who could forget?” Kmicic retorts.

Bogusław takes his time cleaning the knife, the thought of the cut sending hot desire thrumming through his veins: first of having shot at Kmicic, like that, in the face; second, of having him once more quivering beneath him, Bogusław’s other hand at his neck holding him down, pulse beating fast against his thumb as he draws a thin line of red along the curve where the bullet had passed…

He leans over, practically draping himself along Kmicic, the ruffles of his half-open foreign-styled shirt brushing Kmicic’s bare chest, and smiles something predatory.

 

And “Let’s play a game,” he says a week later between bites at Kmicic’s neck.

It is eternally Bogusław who makes such suggestions. Kmicic – and oh, he’ll get bored of him soon, Bogusław always gets bored of his conquests before they him – Kmicic might’ve liked it if Wołodyjowski told him what to do sometimes, but the game he’d truly like to play, and not with Bogusław, is this: pretend to love me.

(Bogusław Radziwiłł has never been kind.)

And he would never do this, and Kmicic would never ask.

“What?” asks Andrzej, shifting between him and the sheets.

Bogusław smiles. “Put your hands above your head.”

 

The day, mid-conversation, he says “ _Ma foi!_ ” and Kmicic, unprompted, retorts “ _Quelle foi?_ ” comes as a surprise. He switches back and forth a little between the two languages, Kmicic asking questions when he needs to, and looks at him a little differently afterwards – young, handsome Kmicic, so brilliant in some ways and so indescribably naïve in others.

_‘Don’t bore me,’ indeed._

He himself, he recollects, put inordinate effort into his French lessons as a boy because he wanted to leave, because he hated this country and, after hearing another’s, hated its language too. Later, with German, it was its utility: could not bear to look a fool in the court of the Elector, could bear anything if not that…

He’s never ‘picked up’ any part of a language through mere conversation (would never be able to say _Ruthenian_ or _a little Latvian,_ he doesn’t even speak Lithuanian – never had to, and never will); he’s certainly never expended the effort to learn any part of a language out of sheer insolence.

(And he himself isn’t foolish enough to think that Kmicic would do any of it to please him. Kmicic doesn’t care for his feelings, and Bogusław doesn’t care for his beyond vague sadistic ‘revenge’; this is their understanding, and it makes everything a good deal simpler. There’s a special kind of joy in breaking hearts, but this is altogether different.)

He supposes that now, they understand each other better.

 

He hears Kmicic talks in his sleep often, as if in a fever. The talk, when distinguishable, is always of Oleńka, guilt, betrayal, Wołodyjowski – _Michał_ , Kmicic says in dreams, always _Michał_ – the names of a string of other fellows of which Bogusław knows little and cares less. All cried out in grief and never ecstasy. Frankly, it’s pathetic to listen to.

“Don’t be angry, Oleńka,” Kmicic murmurs in his sleep, and oh, that’s a familiar one. “Please – No, I – the Hungarian regiments,” he whispers. “The squadrons of Mirski, Oskierko, the others – a red cloth –”

Bogusław, barely-awake, turns towards him. Kmicic’s shoulders tremble; one of his hands is covering the scar on his cheek. He’s on his side, curled inwards, trying to make himself as small as possible, and breathing ragged.

“No,” Kmicic repeats. “I couldn’t have…” His voice breaks. “No –”

Bogusław presses his lips together.

(Conscience, he ponders, is a disease.)

He grips Kmicic’s shoulder and roughly shakes him awake.

Kmicic’s bright eyes fly open, unfocused and wild; the faint blue moonlight reflects off his bright and tousled hair. The scar on his face is pale against the dimmer shades of his skin (deep gold tan in daylight, and “doesn’t see the point” of powder no matter how many times Bogusław suggests it.)

His gaze, staring, meets Bogusław’s, and he says: “Hit me.”

Bogusław tilts his head, catlike – well-versed in containing his shock.

Kmicic’s jaw clenches and unclenches; the whole line of his body is as tense as a coiled spring. “Please.”

Bogusław stands up.

 _This is something new_.

“Get out of bed,” he breathes.

Kmicic does so: takes to his feet as uncertainly as a long-legged colt. His breathing is stifled, smothered. He stares at Bogusław like a drowning man would air, and his left wrist, briefly, seems to spasm.

Bogusław rubs a delicate circle over his forefinger with his thumb before he folds his right hand into a fist.

He strikes Kmicic first in the stomach. The boy barely has time to gasp in response before Bogusław hits him again, nearer his ribs, with the same motion he’d use to slide a dagger under up to his heart, and Kmicic crumples, sways backwards, and staggers back to his feet. Bogusław strikes at his chest, as forcefully as he can: the skin beneath where his narrow collarbone meets the round joint of his shoulder; follows immediately with another blow to the softer skin of his stomach, grips and wrenches Kmicic’s shoulder backwards as Kmicic’s knees give out. Considers his throat, his groin, his thin ribs, the handsome outline of his face: where best to hurt without lasting harm, and Bogusław would know this better than anyone.

They don’t usually leave visible damage, but the temptation to paint bruises on Kmicic’s unharmed cheek is too great to deny. His knuckles, fingers curled tightly, connect, controlled, with skin, muscle and bone, stinging from the ever so satisfying impact; his other hand, a claw on Kmicic’s shoulder, releases, letting him fall hard on his knees.

Kmicic is breathing heavily, head bowed. Belatedly, as if as an afterthought, he reaches a hand up to his face, rubs cautiously at the bruise already forming: and it’s then that Bogusław in controlled, exhilarating fury shoves him roughly to the floor, kicks his crumpled form barefooted, and Kmicic recoils, curling against the blow as if to protect his stomach, his gasps almost sobs. Out of breath, exhausted. He spits blood onto the floorboards and slumps or rather collapses into them; the last vestige of tension seems to evaporate from his body. Strangely, he breathes easily now, and gently; it’s hard to tell in the half-light if those are tears gleaming at the corners of his eyes.

Bogusław rocks back onto his heels and, stretching his hands one after another, examines his fingers.

 _I’m by no means unacquainted with stranger personalities or stranger desires_ , he thinks, light and casual, and what he says to Kmicic, in French, is this:

“Let me know if you need me again.”

And Kmicic, staring at the floor, nods.

**Author's Note:**

> "Ma foi!" translates literally to "My faith!". "Quelle foi?" is meant to be a sarcastic "What faith?" (I'm here for any better way to phrase this in French - wasn't sure which word to use!)
> 
> I meant the first thing I posted in this fandom to be Kmicic/Wołodyjowski the OTP, and yet here we are.


End file.
